


Target Practice

by Coffeeresonance



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Found Family, Octo Expansion Spoilers, Post OE, Salmon Run, agent 8 is older than the other two in this fic, chekhovs laser tag is still making me laugh, got some bad words too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 01:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffeeresonance/pseuds/Coffeeresonance
Summary: In which Eight comes to the surface and becomes an over-worked older brother.Or: Three and Four want to show Eight that there is more to the surface than feral salmonids.





	1. OSHA Violations

Sploosh-o-matic.

It was the final stretch of Mint’s twelve hour shift on Arc Polaris-- one that has gotten increasingly more unkind as the tides rose and fell with the sun. Lucky’s already gotten done in by flyfish more times than they could probably count, and Adrien had to super-jump back to the Square after getting pinned between a scrapper and a wall for ten minutes while her coworkers were trapped on the opposite side of the spacecraft. 

When they finally got the scrapper to explode in a cloud of ash and eggs, she collapsed on the floor wheezing and retching, and was forced to leave before the next wave made shore. She winced apologetically, though whether because of the pain or the guaranteed pay cut, Mint couldn’t say for sure.

What the octoling did know for sure was that it was high tide, they were down a quarter of their staff, and he has a Sploosh-O-fuckin’-matic.

Great.

He looked at his co-workers to see how they fared with Grizzco’s Weapon Lottery Policy. Maya spun a set of Dualie Squelchers easily on both hands, waiting impatiently for the next wave. She was at ease with any mid-range shooter, and Mint was on the receiving end of enough lifesaver respawns to know she could handle herself. The same couldn’t be said of Lucky, however, who wore an expression similar to that of a freshly sentenced convict. And looking at their weapon, they might as well have been one.

E-Litre 4K. Crap.

“Crap,” Lucky murmured.

Each newly assigned weapon locked itself to its users ink signature, ensuring that weapons couldn’t be traded as per company policy. While being well-versed in the different weapon classes is a trait highly valued by Grizzco, many employees (including Lucky and Mint) fail to meet that expectation. 

While Mint could snipe a sea slug on the other side of a map, his spacing is so unrefined with shooters that the one and only time he used Aerospray, he was banned from Deca Towers for an hour after getting accused of throwing the match. Similarly, Lucky is a sponsored competitive Dualies slayer, yet couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a training charger on a tripod. Luckily for them, they didn’t have to-- instead they would have to hit a swarm of frenzied moving targets in an enclosed area, all with the potential and instinct to maim. 

And it was high tide.

And they were down a member.

And he has a Sploosh-o-matic. 

Before the three could ponder further on how irrevocably screwed they were, the blare of the horn sounded throughout the isle. The sudden crackle of a mic going live caused Maya to wince, dropping one of the dualies with a sad clatter.

“You’ve got Boss Salmonid incoming,” came Grizz’s familiar rasp. “This one looks like its gonna be a doozy. Remember: Grizzco Industries is not liable for any loss or damage of property, life, or the pursuit of happiness.” 

A pause.

“Now, DO YOUR JOB!”

\--

The stench of salmonid ink lingered in Mint’s apartment.

Even though he couldn’t smell it himself, the man knew it for a fact. It showed itself in the way people wrinkle their noses when they stepped in. The way their smiles would skew off kilter after checking their shoes, or the unsubtle gifts of air fresheners and candles. He knew it lingered on him too, which is why he takes extra care to remain well stocked on Axo-Lots brand colognes and body sprays.

It was well into the early morning as the octoling treaded heavily through his own apartment, careful to step over the piles of dishes littered around the sofa. His muscles protested every step to the shower, and his head pounded from respawn nausea. He rinsed himself with cold water (the landlord said he’d fix it approximately seventeen weeks ago, but who’s counting) before having a second shower of Ocean Breeze scented body spray. 

If this were any other night, he’d order a pizza and watch television until either he or the complex power failed to continue to function. However, the moment he super jumped back onto the ferry his phone alerted him of twenty missed calls crammed into his inbox of the past twelve hours. After listening to the first fifteen seconds of the first voicemail, he deleted the rest and sighed heavily, thinking of the rest of the night to come. When he glanced at Lucky, who was typing slowly on their phone, they wore the same heavy look. 

Grabbing the case of his Octarian military grade scoped charger (Octoscope as he liked to call it), he left his apartment only twenty minutes after first coming in.


	2. Chekhov's Laser Tag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Three and Four. Introducing the plot.

Tentakeel Outpost was as ominous in the moonlight as it was in the daylight. The isle hovered precariously over a ginormous gaping chasm, pitiably decorated with flags and streamers in a feeble attempt to make it feel a little closer to home. The lanterns by the cabin were lit, casting the diapliated shack in a sickly pink glow. For Mint, the canyon was familiar-- he spent the better part of a decade in its stony embrace, counting rocks on patrol and traversing its endless cliffs. The Outpost, however, was not. The lack of bunkers and purple ink still gave him chills, serving as a reminder of his new allegiance to the New Squidbeak Splatoon. 

He heard them before he saw them.

“It’s all your fault you introduced him to this crap!”

“Oh, so its all my fault he has a steady income and place to live!”

The latter voice was hoarse after hours of crying Maws and, more recently, cursing Grizzco’s Weapon Lottery System to hell and back. Unlike Mint, it appeared Lucky went straight to the Outpost after work.

“Oh sure, take all the credit. I’m the only reason Eight’s not part of a 10,007 cephalopod smoothie!”

Mint internally winced at the reminder shouted by Jace. The events of the metro were unpleasant for both of them, branding them with the scars of stories they were too tired to retell. Still, he owed his life to her and during moments of insecurity ponders when she’ll cash in his favour and leave him to his own devices in this unfamiliar land. 

“Oh, real mature. Pulling out the Kamabo card. I would’ve done the same thing, you know!”

“Then why didn’t you, Four? Too busy playing your little turf games to do your job?”

Their voices echoed throughout the canyon. If the Octarian C-Branch were still active, his old commander would’ve definitely sent Mint and his patrol to dispose of the sudden noisy interference. 

Even if said interference was two unarmed inkling teenagers, one of which was still in a frayed Grizzco uniform while the other sported pajama pants and slippers.

Lucky began to retort, but caught Mint’s movement out of the corner of their eye and closed their mouth shut with an audible snap. Jace, oblivious, took this as a sign to keep going.

“And speaking of, who was the one that took him to his first turf match? I mean, imagine being twenty-one and never having played a single round of turf war! Its fuckin’ pathetic!”

A small cough from behind interrupted her tirade. She tensed up and turned, coming face to face with the fuckin' pathetic Octoling in question. He quirked an eyebrow at her increasingly blueing face, matching the hue of the burn scar surrounding her right eye.

“N-not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. Especially if you grew up in an authoritarian ass-wipe of a society…” She trailed off, blushing.

Silence reigned for a couple of beats save for the almost constant ringing in Mint’s right ear. Then, a soft snicker from Lucky interrupted the stillness and almost immediately all three of them broke into a chorus of laughter— an unrefined cacophonous melody of baritone and soprano drowning out the preexisting tension. Their laughter bounced off the walls of the ravines, making Mint picture his commander’s face once again, contorted in rage and confusion upon discovering the perceived threat was a cackling AWOL soldier and two adolescents playing secret agents. The mental image just made him laugh even harder.

As they got out their last giggles, Jace drew both of them into a hug, her long mantles draping over the head of the shortest agent, much to Lucky’s chagrin. 

“I thought you were dead, stupid fucks,” she said quietly. 

Mint chuckled at the expected profanity. “It’s only been a month, Three.”

Between Lucky’s tournament practices and Mint’s 40 hour Grizzco weeks, it's been hard to find the time to meet up with the senior agent. She herself became swamped in chores, though not as physically taxing as one might expect from the (in)famous Hero of Inkopolis. Ever since Kamabo, her agent work has taken a back seat to physical therapy and college applications— things neither Mint nor Lucky had any desire to experience based on her 2:00 AM rants in the group chat.

“Why go to school when I’m a good enough turfer to keep myself afloat?” Lucky had said once, after the octoling asked. “Besides, I don’t wanna put the stress on my ‘rents. You know how they are.”

Mint did not know how they were, but nodded anyways as a form of comfort.

“A month is a long time!” Jace’s whine brought him out of his musings.

“Yeesh. And I thought I was clingy.”

“That’s not fair. You see Eight all the time!”

Another true statement. A big tournament was coming up, one that had all of Inkopolis buzzing— including its star players. Lucky started taking part time shifts at Grizzco as “extra practice”, though it served mostly to give them a violent outlet for their pent up anxiety. It was only a matter of time before it was discovered that them and Mint were one of the most productive duos on the entire staff, the two being scheduled together more often than not.

“To be fair, the circumstances aren’t really the most... favorable.” Lucky stated. “We don’t really get to do much bonding when caught between a steel eel and a cohock.” 

“For the last time, I still have no idea what you’re talking about when you speak that gibberish salmon bullshit.”

Lucky was rolling their eyes when Mint finally remembered the reason they were all there at piss o'clock in the morning.

“So, what was so important that you needed to see us so urgently?” He asked, shifting his Octoscope case. Judging by the levity of the atmosphere however, he now doubted the necessity of the weapon.

Jace smiled, reaffirming his notion. “I’m getting discharged from physical therapy tomorrow. And we— as in all three of us— are going to celebrate.”

Lucky pulled her into another hug, which turned into a friendly headlock from the taller agent.

“It is also,” she continued, “the three month anniversary of your surfacing, Eight!” 

He startled, before mentally recalling the date in his mind. Was it really three months already...? Just yesterday it felt like he was fighting for his life in an underground haunted train station from hell, dodging ink and unresolved trauma. Hm. Life moved faster when the passage of time felt like it existed, he supposed. 

“I really wish you would call it something else,” said Lucky from underneath Jace’s grip. “Surfacing sounds... gross.”

The headlock grew even tighter and they gave out a choked laugh as Jace’s knuckles rubbed against their head. “As a senior agent of the New Squidbeak Splatoon, I can and will call Eight’s surfacing anything I damn well please.”

“As someone with a shred of dignity, I can and will call that stupid. You make it sound like the ground is giving birth to him. A wet and slimy birth. Straight out of a dirty manhole covered in various mystery cephalo-matter birth.

Mint resisted the urge to point out that 1.) that is essentially how it happened and 2.) they all willingly entered a sewer grate to get to the Outpost they’re at now. Instead, sensing another argument brewing and not wanting to agitate his still ringing ears (Grizz had that effect on people), he moved in to both separate the two agents play-fighting and grab their attention.

“So, what's the plan?”

Jace beamed— Mint learned quickly that she always had a plan of some sort— and reached into her pockets to pull out a folded up piece of paper. Lucky let out a sharp snort and, energy not depleted from their earlier roughhousing, was greeted with a backhand upside the head. She unfolded the square before handing it to the octoling.

Though untitled, it was what appeared to be a list of some sort. Each entry was written in Jace’s jagged script, with some being violently crossed out. In the dim pink light, he had to squint to read the writing. Some of the entries included were:

\- Wahoo World  
\- Shellendorf Institute tour  
\- Ink Theory Concert at Starfish Mainstage  
\- Skate at Blackbelly

“...Why did you hand me a list of the upcoming stage rotations?”

She sighed, exasperated. “It's not that. Its a list of things we could do together.”

Ah. That made a lot more sense. Upon closer inspection he noticed that some of the suggestions were in Lucky’s loopy penmanship— most of the activities by their hand were based around turf wars and related sports, though one entry in particular caught his attention.

“What’s laser tag?”

Lucky shot Jace a dirty look when she turned her head up towards the sky and let out a guttural, booming groan.

“Laser tag,” Lucky began, ignoring her, “is a game of skill, strategy, and ability, only second to Rainmaker in terms of raw performance and team synergy required.”

“It’s basically just a really shitty turf war,” Jace elaborated. “Except instead of ink, everyone has these stupid laser pointers and nobody gets splatted. Only kids who haven’t received their turfing licenses or fingers play. Cod knows why Four never grew out of it.”

“Because it's FUN. You know, F-U-N? You should try it sometime.”

“If it includes scrambling around a McDugong play-place with toddlers and a flashlight then I’d rather take a raincheck on the whole “fun” thing.”

“Actually,” Mint said, interrupting their bickering with a tapping of his chin, “that does sound interesting.”

There was a problem, however. He looked away from the two younger agents, ignoring their respective dumbfounded and vindicated expressions, not wanting to see their faces shift to disappointment with his next sentence. “Though quite frankly…. I’m not really sure I have the time. You know how demanding Mr. Grizz can be.”

“Which is why I took the liberty of calling us both out of work for the rest of the week!”

“You did _WHAT!?”_

The younger agents flinched at his sudden reaction to Lucky’s words. The final word echoed throughout the walls of the canyon, creating a perpetual loop of frenzied confusion. Or the beginning of a bad rap song.

There’s no reason for them to have known Mint was living paycheck to paycheck (gachapon to gachapon...?) despite the long hours of work. He never told them that he struggled financially, wanting to be spared the pitying looks from children three years his junior. Because that would mean telling them where a bulk of his earnings went, and he was _not_ ready to have that conversation with them yet.

Nuh-uh. Nope.

It didn’t help that, like the weapons distribution within shifts, the Grizzco pay system is completely randomized (which probably isn’t legal, though Mint doesn’t know enough about the surface to say so yet). In a string of recent misfortune, he’s been getting hats and shoes instead of cash, most of which don’t fetch a fair price in the market. Younger inklings wait outside of the enlistment office at the end of his shift, knowing that they’ll grab the free gear or drink tickets he discards their way.

So yeah, they probably shouldn’t have done that. 

“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” whispered Jace.

“All of this was your idea!” yelled Lucky, rubbing a stressed hand through their spiked hair.

Instead of arguing however, they both looked at Mint expectedly. Uh oh. “You’re not mad at us, are you? We noticed you work so much we thought it’d be good for you to take a break…”

Damn it all. He couldn’t remain upset with them. Sure, they went behind his back and fucked with his livelihood, grabbed his meticulous budgeting plan by the throat and took it out behind the shed, but they didn’t know any better. And if he were being fair, constantly taking those optional shifts rather than spending time with them was probably what caused the extreme action in the first place. Plus his muscles were sore and his head hurt from the constant tinnitus flare ups the job caused him….

It helped that the two of them had some mean puppy eyes to boot.

Mint sighed, exaggerating the motions to try and downplay his initial reaction, before flashing a crooked grin. “I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, Luck. You too, Three. Just... ask next time before you do something like that, okay?”

Jace let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding while Lucky looked relieved to the verge of tears. Honestly. Its moments like these that made Mint doubt the veracity of their agenthood-- that they’re nothing more than just two kids-- even though he’s seen and experienced their work firsthand. 

“Alrighty, then!” Jace exclaimed, using her ‘agent voice’ and emphasizing the phrase with a loud clap. “Look through the list and tell us what you want to do. It’s your vacation after all. We meet at 14 hundred hours tomorrow, sharp!”

Lucky and Mint performed a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am!”

There they stood: an ex-soldier in a baggy t-shirt and a jumpsuit clad adolescent hailing an inkling that looked ripped straight out of a teenager’s coming-of-age slumber party, bunny slippers and all. Mint could only imagine how ridiculous they looked, how if he were ever caught saluting a squid he’d be tried for treason in Supreme Octarian Court and sentenced to re-processing. He thought about how he felt more at ease with these two seventeen year olds than he ever did in the militia that was his supposed family. The family that left him for dead, the song that freed him, the charger, the telephone, the train, the-

A loud undignified yawn punctured his thoughts.

“Seriously though, why did we have to do this right now? I still smell like fresh fish ass.”

Did they? Mint couldn’t smell it.

“Because _you_ ,” Jace said, jabbing a finger towards Lucky, “sleep in until 6:00 PM if you don’t have any plans for the day.”

“and _you_ ,” accusing finger now pointing at Mint, “only check your phone twice a day for some cod-forsaken reason.”

False— he was an avid user of his cell phone. He used GooTube like it was shutting down tomorrow, obsessed with those little arts and crafts videos that are supposed to make your life supposedly easier. He loved getting calls and texts from the other agents, from Pearl and Marina asking if he’s adjusting okay or Cuttlefish accidently sending his Sploogle search through the text messaging app. 

Most of the time though, he just… forgets to respond. Whether it's because of work or just lacking the energy, Mint has a bad habit of opening messages or voicemails and never getting back to it. Apparently it's a faux-pas in Inkling culture to ignore such a direct means of communication, though the only person that gave him grief about it was Pearl. He was only let off the hook due to Marina’s gentle excuses in their shared chat.

Ha ha. Off the Hook.

The small laugh at his own mental joke proved a suitable acknowledgement for Jace, who only huffed in response.

The three parted ways shortly after, with Mint stowing his Octoscope in the large weapons box by the cabin. They entered through the grate one by one, filled with the satisfaction brought by a promise of company in the coming days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get this "exposition chapter" out of the way before final week comes for my ass. I have a better inkling (haha) of where I want the story to go from here! Some relevant hcs / notes:
> 
> \- Mint has tinnitus in his right ear from being a right handed charger main. I'd imagine the constant crashing of the weapon would be hell against the ear drums. (i was a percussionist in my old high school band so i know a thing or two about this unfortunately)
> 
> \- Three has the classic agent scar
> 
> \- I love very serious Three as much as the next person, but goober Three is just too near and dear to my heart. She and Four are good friends, though they get on each others nerves and do have clashing personalities. I imagine at one point their constant teasing was a bit more genuine and mean-spirited in nature.
> 
> \- If you noticed how the agents refer to each other (i.e. names vs titles) then congrats! thatll be addresssed in a later chapter
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> \--  
> Please do not read Eight's (Mint) interactions with the other two agents as romantic in any way!

**Author's Note:**

> the idea of respawn nausea came from squid squad's Operation 24 fic, which if you havent read yet, youre missing out on  
> \--  
> Hey! I haven't written anything in a long, LONG time and anything I wrote then is. Bad.  
> But I fell into Splatoon and really liked how much freedom you have over the lore and characters and wanted to write something with my own. I'm not sure how many people are gonna read it since theres no major ships or characters, but it's a fun exercise for me nethertheless.
> 
> IMPORTANT:  
> My Agent Eight is 21 while Three and Four are 17. Please do not read any interactions between Eight and Three/Four as romantic in ANY manner. In this house we stan found family FIRST.


End file.
